In the past twelve months, The Middleman had gotten used to the feeling of utter, unadulterated and — frankly — de-goshdarn-lightful pride at the progress of his young apprentice. Without fail, the art student who had come under his tutelage a snarky, vinegar-veined quipper had turned into a reliable — if sometimes idiosyncratic – Middleman-to-be. Today was no exception — even if its events were causing him to suck air in a mad canter toward The Middlemobile, where — at the beck and call of a signal from his Middlewatch — the trunk would soon pop open to grant him access to the seldom-used-but-always-at-the-ready Middlejetpack.
The Middleman disliked the Middlejetpack: an archaic contraption harkening back to the days when former Middleman Guy Goddard — his sexual promiscuity as overt as his appetite for vehicular carnage in exotic locales — rode the thing in a green smoking jacket with a Beretta in one hand and a highball of Fleming’s Commander Jamaica Rum in the other…but desperate times called for desperate measures, and flingety-flangety-foom, this time was more desperate than a Portland vegan at a Texas barbecue.
— via themiddleblog
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